


Ends of the Earth

by ipsilateral



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Ableist Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Derogatory Language, Ender's Game AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24908269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ipsilateral/pseuds/ipsilateral
Summary: The thing that sucks the most is that Brad can't ride his motorcycle in space. There are moon rovers, sure, but Brad's not on the moon, he's in orbit around Bumfuck, Mars and floating there for a minimum of 18 months.-- an Ender's Game AU
Relationships: Brad Colbert/Nate Fick
Comments: 14
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been hanging out in my docs for years and I want to give it a home. As a warning, it's currently unfinished; I'm adding bits and pieces and hoping to close it out eventually!
> 
> Ender's Game AU, but hopefully it'll still be readable even if the source material is not familiar. Warning for coarse language similar to both the book and show.

"...in the push to expand the elite command units of the International Fleet, or the IF. The new law requires that children take the International Fleet Aptitude exam any time between their tenth and fifteenth birthdays. 'We don't want just any smart kid who sits at his tablet all day and memorizes pi to the thousandth digit. We want smart kids who can think strategically, who can fire a gun, who can command spaceships, who can convince other people to follow them into battle, who can defeat the Formic army,' said Ferrando..."

* * *

The thing that sucks the most is that Brad can't ride his motorcycle in space. There are moon rovers, sure, but Brad's not on the moon, he's in orbit around Bumfuck, Mars and floating there for a minimum of 18 months.

He'd barely turned 16 and gotten his M1 license before the suits had come calling. Next thing he knew, he was strapped into a seat on a starship in Florida, listening to a lecture about zero-grav while a timer on the ceiling silently counted down in red numbers until they blasted off to Battle School. There was some jeering amongst all the launchies, because having over fifty guys in one place always turned into the fucking cavemen Olympics, but Brad kept his mouth shut and looked straight ahead almost the whole time. No one bothered him -- that is, except for the tiny stick of a guy sitting next to him. He reminded Brad of a praying mantis and talked incessantly, even when Brad gave him his usual unblinking stare in response.

That's pretty much been the story of the past six weeks. Ray talks his mouth off, Brad pretends he doesn't listen. 

For example, right now some military drone up at the front of the class is lecturing on linear algebra. Brad's hearing that through his right ear. Through his left ear, Ray is yammering on about some chick he banged on the hood of a car parked on a basketball court, which Brad actually suspects to be a scene from a music video.

"Ray," the drone barks, and actually surprises Ray into shutting up. He holds out a marker. "You know enough math to talk through the entire class, then you know enough to solve this problem."

Ray scoffs as he gets up. He then proceeds to write out some kind of proof starting at the top left edge of the board -- Brad thinks he recognizes some Fourier analysis crap, but he can't be sure -- and almost gets halfway down the wall before the drone says, "Just answer the problem, Ray," in a bored voice, as if Ray is just another snotty genius space kid. Been there, done that, seen every mathematical prodigy Earth has to offer.

Brad can't really blame him. This is only a gestational period for all launchies before getting into the guts and namesake of Battle School. Basically this military drone is a teacher and babysitter rolled into one. Sucks.

"What's the point in showing off? You just make yourself look like an asshole," Brad says as soon as Ray sits down again. Everyone who's even considered for Battle School scores so high on the academic portion that there's really no point in trying to quantify rankings that way.

"Yeah, but I make _him_ look like an asshole, too." Ray jerks his head, indicating the drone. "That's the point, my Talmudic brother. Now pay attention, I don't want to have to explain this shit to you again later."

Brad punches him solidly on the thigh, but Ray just hisses quietly without wiping that shit-eating grin off his face.

*

After their eighth week, the probation period for the newest launch group is officially over. No one's had a breakdown or gone psycho, and there's been little to no violence -- none that's been reported to teachers, anyway -- so everyone's cleared to take a zero-gravity class to learn how to move around in the battle rooms without breaking bones or spewing all over the inside of their helmet.

There are two rotating hulls consisting entirely of battle rooms, with two gate entrances for each on the east and west sides of Deck A of the main shuttle. Launchies practice in a special padded room with no obstacles, like their very own mental institution in space. The staff probably doesn't want anyone to get hurt until they're ready to hurt each other in a trained military manner. Typical hypocritical IF bullshit.

During the first session, everyone finds out that there's a pretty steep learning curve for something that'll eventually occupy about 90% of their time at Battle School. The class consists of them floating around looking stupid. Some even try to swim through the air, which totally contradicts Brad's theory about everyone in Battle School being of a certain intelligence. Doc maneuvers around the room with a hook, the travel-sized tank of gravity that lets him get wherever he wants to go without bouncing off walls and zig-zagging all over the place. He tries to keep order as much as he can but fails really miserably, even for being a hard-ass military man. Letting a bunch of teenagers loose in a null-gravity situation is just a bad fucking idea.

Even Brad has to admit that it's pretty awesome, though. He pushes off walls and changes direction and thinks about his motorcycle back home, how its wheels are still and gathering dust in the garage. He's lucky he takes to it so easily, actually, because zero-grav is unpredictable. Some of the launchies were star athletes back home but they have trouble with their flash suits and can barely fly through the air in one direction. Motion sickness doesn't give a shit if you were a state champ sprinter or tennis player. Then comes the inevitable spewing.

"This is how I feel after 60 milligrams of Adderall," Ray calls as he passes by. He's a lucky one, too. "I'm fucking high off life, dude! Check it out!"

Brad smiles to himself. In his periphery, he can see someone spinning in what's probably three directions at once. The retching noise comes through comms a few seconds later.

"Oh, man. Was that Lilley?" says Walt in a gleeful voice.

Lilley coughs, then groans, "Bro. This is disgusting."

They all laugh. It sounds slightly giddier than usual, and then Doc tells them to shut the fuck up and stop giggling because practice is almost over. "Everyone assemble back by Gate A," he barks. "Lilley, keep your helmet on. I want you to stew in that for a minute so you don't go off doing something stupid again."

"Zero-grav can suck my nuts," Trombley pants to Brad as they all try to line up near the gate. Walt is the last one to sail in, and he does so by crashing into Lilley at the back of the line, causing a kind of fucked up Newton's Cradle effect so that Trombley, first in line, flies against the gate. 

They all crack up again. Over the commotion, Brad thinks he can hear Doc call them all slapstick motherfuckers and he smiles.

There's a loud buzz and the lights come on once the gate aligns with the main shuttle. The handholds along the ceiling help them swing out into a short hallway before hopping down onto the deck again. As they try to get re-situated with gravity and walking, the hull rotates to the next room. Gates are dual-layered, with the inner one made of a thick plastic that allows spectators to observe battles. The next room is active and Brad guesses that this is just another practice, judging by the relaxed flight of some of the soldiers.

Everyone starts stripping off their flash suits save for Lilley, who's hunched over with his helmet still on. Doc gives them another short lecture about movement in null-gravity environments and finally dismisses them. People move off toward the showers or the barracks, but a handful stick around to watch the soldiers practice.

The strange thing about it is that there are at least five different uniform colors flying around in the battle room. Even as a launchy, Brad knows that armies don't fraternize with each other unless it's to jump someone in the hallways or the bathrooms. Still, it can't be anything but a practice. It takes him a bit to figure out who the leader is: some guy in a brown and khaki flash suit occasionally gathering everyone up and gesturing, presumably while speaking through the helmet comms.

Brad watches for a while, trying to figure it out. None of the soldiers he's seen were willing to work with other armies. In fact, they seemed more willing to chop off their own dicks and toss them into dead space, so he doesn't know what to make of this scene in the battle room.

No one else seems to give a shit, though, so they leave and wander around the upper deck for a bit. This is where all the army barracks are too, and the first thing Brad notices is that there's little to no privacy. The commanders' bunks are the only rooms that have sliding doors that shut and lock. Regular barracks have an open doorframe, putting all bunks and people in full view from the hallway. Most are empty when they peek in, probably because of practices or class, but there's a handful of guys in the fourth barracks down. Brad sees a pile of jumpsuits on the floor, all brown and khaki. The placard by the doorway says _DEVIL DOGS_.

He knows the divide between soldier and launchy. He usually abides by it, too, but this time he loudly asks, "Anybody here lead independent practices?"

All the guys look up at once, glancing skeptically at their powder-blue launchy jumpsuits. There's a small burst of laughter. One guy says, "Yo, Poke, you hear some kind of squeakity-squeaky voice? I think a bug crawled up from the launchy decks."

"Aww, one of them's pouting. You homesick for your momma, little launchy?" another one yells. More laughter.

But there's one guy who just looks at them. "Who's asking?" he finally says.

"Me," Brad says patiently.

The guy snorts. "You. Okay, well, the answer is yeah. Nate Fick. Our toon leader."

Nate Fick. Brad's seen him around briefly. Tall, but not too tall. Built, but not too built. They've made accidental eye contact a few times in the hallways. Brad never looks away when it happens.

"People call him 'Bash', but not to his face," adds the guy. He has _Espera_ sewn onto his jumpsuit, but introduces himself as Poke. He's sitting cross-legged on a top bunk, talking down to them as they stand there attentively. "It's short for 'Bashful'."

"Why's your toon leader named after a fucking dwarf in _Snow White_?" Trombley asks.

Poke gives him a withering look. "Because he's shy, dumbass. Never wants nobody to look at him if he can help it. Thing is, he can't help it because he's gone ten battles in a row without anyone in his toon getting frozen."

"He doesn't look like he'd stand out," Trombley observes with that glassy stare of his.

"Shit, man, where'd they find this kid? Chewing on the pipes in a lead factory?" Poke asks Brad. Probably because it's easiest to see him. Brad's already taller than the bed. Devil Dog's barracks are almost exactly the same as the launchy barracks, with bunks and lockers lining the room on both sides, except it's louder, dirtier, and probably more violent.

"Why does he practice with other armies?" Brad asks.

Poke stares at him. "Because some people here value the important shit and not the militarized, small-minded, processed gruel that the teachers feed us. Nate doesn't give a shit about the dumb fucking rivalries they breed around here. He gives a shit about the bigger picture."

"What's the bigger picture?" Trombley echoes.

"I have a better question: Trombley, why the fuck do you know the names of the dwarves from _Snow White_?" Ray asks.

"Fucking Disney launchies," Poke mutters as the other guys hoot. "Yo, what the fuck are you doing up in army barracks anyway? Get back down to your little launchy toilets and maybe we'll talk when you've learned how to wipe your ass correctly."

"Front to back, ladies. Don't forget," someone else chimes in with a sing-song voice.

But Poke has a tiny smile playing around the corner of his mouth, so Brad just turns away without saying anything. He feels the rest of them do the same save for Trombley, who mutters something back because he may be smart but he never knows when to shut the fuck up. Compared to him, Ray is Helen Keller. At least he shuts up when it really matters.

*

On the last day of zero-grav classes, they all receive the flash pistol they'll be using during actual battles. They're lightweight, not unlike the toys back home, and programmed to shoot red or green infrared light that trigger receptors on flash suits, which then freeze up and immobilize the soldier -- either partially if hit in the limbs, or whole body with a torso or headshot -- until the battle is over.

"Russian roulette, motherfucker," Chaffin says, grabbing Trombley into a headlock and pressing the pistol to his temple. Everyone else is doing similar shit, rolling around on the floor with their arms outstretched, James Bond-style, miming pistol whipping and jumping on each other.

"Jesus, look what they're breeding up here. Trigger-happy retards," Ray comments in distaste. Still, he has his index finger poked through the trigger space and is twirling the weapon around like some stripper doing a space-opera Western roleplay.

"They're honing us into the finest military minds of the century, Ray," Brad says absently. He holds the pistol out and closes one eye, carefully squinting down the barrel. "A trigger-happy retard is exactly what they're looking for."

Walt comes up behind Ray and pushes the pistol against his shoulder-blades. "Freeze, fucker," he orders. Ray retaliates by whipping around and trying to shove his own pistol down Walt's pants.

"See? Even pleasant little Walt wants to fuck some shit up," Brad comments. He smiles and ducks away when Walt tries to slap at his head.

Doc lets them all fuck around until right before lights out, when everyone begrudgingly tosses the pistols into their lockers and starts settling in for the night. This is usually the time for everyone to tuck into their bunks and add a few lines to a letter addressed to home, or maybe flip through the heavily censored letters they've received. Some kids just stare at the ceiling, wiggling their toes underneath their blankets.

There are a few scattered sighs, sounds that could be taken for exhaustion or unwinding, but Brad knows they're not. Technically, they're all now weaponized soldiers, but that doesn't stop the homesickness from setting in.

Not Brad, though. Back home, he's Brad Colbert, an adoptee with very loving parents and a sun-filled life in San Diego. Here, he's Brad Colbert, one amongst thousands, military launchy. But it all feels like the same shit, different toilet. It doesn't really matter either way to him. Most launchies go through occasional bouts of homesickness, no matter how much they try not to show it, but Brad doesn't. He doesn't feel that way about anything. What's the use of being homesick? It wouldn't help him any in outer fucking space.

He hangs his arm over the bed and holds it in a straight line, finger and thumb cocked in the shape of a gun, and squints as he aims at the top of Chaffin's head, one bunk down and over from him. Ray snorts from the bottom bunk, but doesn't say anything.

The lights go out.

*

Contrary to the Earth-side reports and commercials they have airing in 57 languages all over the free world, flying around in the metal lump that is Battle School can get real boring, real fast. Even battle room training starts to mesh together after a while. Free periods and empty pockets of time add up. The library is usually crammed full, soldiers sitting at every free cubicle and reading about anything from Machiavelli to the use of the word 'the' in 16th century British literature. Arcade games have lines until lights out. Some kids work out until a teacher tells them to stop because they'll degrade their bones if they stay in there for too long. The gravity is set higher on the lowest deck and highest in the gym, so every push-up feels equal to two, and every mile run seems like three.

But Brad, he doesn't waste time jostling for a place in lines at the arcade or risk pink-socking it with hours at the gym. Instead, he focuses on Nate Fick.

It's almost laughably easy to find out the obvious facts. Color coding the uniforms was a stroke of genius by the staff, since now Brad can keep track of who Nate's allies are, who he practices with. Sometimes this whole thing feels like Roman machinations, trapping a bunch of guys in one place and essentially pitting them against each other, but Nate's practices are like a rainbow coalition of peace and love.

Within a week of arriving at Battle School, Brad had managed to pick up a teacher's login and password, just in case. He hasn't used it yet because he hasn't had reason to, but he figures that now is as good a time as ever. He logs on and navigates through a system that a kindergartner could have designed. It takes him only a couple minutes to access the student files; he checks out Nate's file sixth, and spends the exact same time reading over it as he does for the rest of the eight other random files that he chooses.

The passport-sized file photo is black and white and shittily compressed, but even that can't hide the sharp bone structure, the full mouth. Brad wastes a precious fraction of a second just looking at the picture. There's nothing else all that interesting, since the teachers are mostly unobservant pinheads, but he does learn that Nate had been offered a command post. He'd turned it down. Strange, since no one on record turned down command without getting iced, sent back home to Earth with a dishonorable discharge. 

From there, he goes a bit deeper. Students have limited access to the net, but Brad manages to bypass the filters and gain something like administrative access to the files. Again, not much in particular stands out, mostly more personal, pre-Battle School junk. All he finds out is that Nate hadn't even made it halfway through the fifth grade before being placed in a launch group. Also strange, only because most launchies attend at least junior high on Earth, if not a year or two of high school.

The battle rooms are still off-limits for launchies until they get promoted into armies, but there are huge monitors hanging on the walls that show video feeds for each room. Brad saunters by at random intervals every day, catching glimpses of Nate's practices and some of Devil Dogs' battles. They're good but seem to be working in separate circles. Even with people flying all over the place and infrared lasers lighting up the room like an exploding Christmas tree, Brad can tell which soldiers are in Nate's toon. He watches carefully, fingers twitching whenever someone pulls off a particularly sophisticated move.

His gut reaction when he watches Nate is akin to the freefall of the shuttle during their launch from Earth. Part of it is attraction, sure, but the rest he can't quite figure out yet.

*

A couple weeks later, he's sitting in a lecture about fighting strategies in Han China when Doc shows up in the doorway and nods at Brad. After a pause, Brad gets up and follows Doc, who stays a few steps ahead of him down several hallways. He finally stops and palms a door open.

"Thank you, Bryan," Patterson says from behind his desk, and Doc departs without a word or a glance at Brad. "Brad, have a seat."

"Sir," Brad greets as he sits down. The office is strictly utilitarian, with exposed pipes and no fanfare covering the walls. Just a messy desk, two chairs, a tablet, and Patterson.

"How are classes?"

"Fine, sir."

"And battle room practice? Practice makes perfect."

"Also fine. Sir, thank you for the concern, but I highly doubt you pulled me out of class to spout platitudes," Brad replies.

Patterson's lips curl inward. He could be frustrated or amused. Brad can't read him very well. "Right. You're here because I'd like to ask you about your fascination with Nathaniel Fick."

Brad's stomach suddenly twists up but he gives Patterson a blank look, effectively covering up any surprise. "Fick? I know who he is, but I don't even see him around. He's in an army and I'm not."

And it's true, Brad _doesn't_ see him around -- but that's only because he tracks him so thoroughly that they're never in the same place at the same time. Brad knows that Nate likes to eat within ten minutes, just before mess closes; he knows that he holds extra practices with his little crew at 0700 every other day; he knows the classes he's taking right now, had them memorized after a brief glance during one of his server prowls.

Oh.

The sudden clarity of it all rushes up in Brad's head. Fuck, that was a novice move, and careless to boot. Brad's used to seeing all sides of everything. Realizing he missed something only after the fact is pissing him off.

"He's the only soldier you've never been in the same room with," Patterson points out. "Isn't that indicative of something? You're so careful not to be obvious about it, but that in and of itself is telling me something."

Brad rolls his eyes. "Even if I were 'fascinated' with him, as you say, you think I'd be stupid enough to let you catch on?"

Patterson is still giving him that distrustful look. Brad blinks at him.

"Do you see Command School in your future, Brad?" he asks, abruptly changing topics. "You do know that the space program needs more pilot commanders. Soldiers. Warriors. The war with the Formics will be on our turf eventually."

"But the First Expedition hasn't even made it back yet," Brad says. "You have no idea what they're going to find out there."

Patterson acknowledges that with a small nod and a shrug. "Still. We could always use more people on our team. Never underestimate the number of reserve forces that might be needed."

A bunch of Battle School kids graduate to different secondary schools every year, but Brad knows what the military really wants: they sift through all these kids because their ultimate goal is finding someone to tout as a hero back on Earth, someone who can help justify the IF's continuing engagements in "deep space exploration". Which is what they call it, but in reality it's a hunt to eradicate the Formics, the aliens lightyears away. The kicker is that they _actually_ want a legit hero, like Hercules in space or some shit. A hero who will save the human race by being cold enough to wipe out an entire species, all while having an innocent cherubic demeanor that appeals to the fleabags back on Earth. 

Brad is not who they're looking for, he knows this. Patterson knows this. Hell, Brad wouldn't have believed such a person existed, but the only reason why they're meeting has got to be because Nate Fick is their chosen golden boy. Adding on the fact that Nate had been recruited to Battle School years earlier than everyone else means there's a sense of urgency -- which means that the First Expedition isn't just AWOL, they're likely blown to pieces at this point. And now they're fast-tracking Nate to Space Hero 2.0, because repeating mistakes is apparently the IF's specialty. Sometimes Brad is still surprised by the stupidity of adults.

This information is processed in the time it takes for Brad to shift in his seat. At least now he's figured out why he's felt so intent on decoding Nate. Brad has always had good instincts about people.

"That's all, then. You can get back to class," Patterson finally says.

Brad stands up immediately and is almost out the door when Patterson says, "Advanced Theoretical Physics is next, right? And you're 16?"

"I'm trying to break the record for the youngest person ever to graduate to Command School," Brad answers.

He leaves without saying anything more. The sarcasm was nowhere near as heavy-handed as it could have been, but still, he'd swear that Patterson was suppressing a smile. Maybe not all officers are complete idiots, then.

*

After that episode, Brad obediently stays away from doing anything that strays from what a launchy should be doing. A launchy should be going to class, working out, and practicing in the battle rooms. A launchy should not be using teachers' log-ons and passwords and be inexplicably fascinated with a certain toon leader. He works out with Ray, since Ray being out of breath means Ray not talking, and plays arcade games with Walt and practices shooting with Trombley. He sits in the library, reads about Vauban, and answers Chaffin's questions when he pokes his head into Brad's carrel.

Then he starts to get bored.

He figures the teachers had always known about him hacking into the server, but they never said anything about it. They wanted to see what he was looking for, that much is clear. Now that they're leaving him alone again, there's a familiar itch to test the terrain, to see how far is too far. To push until something pushes back. There's a leash around his neck, for sure, but the least he can do is gauge how far it'll let him stray.

He tries the teacher's log-on, but the password has unsurprisingly been changed. Also, he encounters firewalls far earlier than he'd expected. Coming up with some work-arounds takes a bit of time; apparently they don't want to make things _too_ easy for him.

He decides to try another route.

*

Poke and another student named Mike Wynn are some of Nate's closest allies, according to the files. It's obvious by the way they interact as well, especially with Wynn, who's more of a friend compared to Poke, who likes to keep his own council. Brad finds Wynn in the library, playing some game on his tablet instead of studying the stacks of papers surrounding him.

"Mike, right?" Brad asks without preamble.

Wynn glances up, takes in Brad's uniform, and turns back to his game. "Yeah," he says without looking up again.

Brad takes that as enough permission to pull up a chair. "You're in Fick's toon?"

"Used to be. Schwetje gave me my own toon a few weeks ago." Wynn finally looks at him. "And what would a nice little launchy like you be asking this for?"

Brad shrugs. "Curiosity."

"Uh huh."

Brad tries again. "He seems to be the only kid in Battle School that doesn't want to bash people's faces in just for being in different army."

"You got that much right," Mike snorts. He finally gives Brad his full attention. "What's with the questions? Shouldn't you be bundled up in footie pajamas, counting the minutes until you get another letter from mommy and daddy?"

"I just want to know what makes a good leader. That's what I'm here for," Brad says, trying to go for the 'bright-eyed cocksucker with initiative' schtick, but Wynn doesn't seem to be buying it. Shit, Brad's not even buying it. 

"Fick, he's a good leader, am I right?" he prompts, and doesn't continue until Wynn gives a short nod in response. "That's what I want to do. Have you seen the unmitigated, hormonal disasters stinking up this place? Corralling these buffoons into following orders seems impossible, but Fick makes it look effortless." Putting on the part of a real go-getter hack is making Brad's irritation ratchet up several notches, but he grits his teeth and keeps up the front.

Surprisingly, Wynn seems to be giving the question some serious thought. "I've never actually thought about it, you know," he says with unexpected honesty. "Nate, he -- well, I'm of the mind that you can train good leaders. But you can't train great ones."

"And Nate is great," Brad says slowly. 

Wynn makes a face. "I'm not so good with describing this stuff, man. All I know is that he's the only person in this goddamn septic tank that I'd follow into battle. And that's including upper management. He -- he wakes up the good parts in you. He doesn't hate anybody. If you're good, then you'll like him and he'll like you."

This was starting to sound like a Bible School session in Pleasantville. "What do you mean, he wakes up the good parts in you?"

"He just does. I know it sounds like a crock of shit that should be packaged up and sold by cult leaders with Kool-Aid, but it's the only way I know how to explain it."

"Sure sounds like he's got the makings for a cult leader," Brad says. The ceiling lights flash, indicating the start of class. 

Wynn smiles crookedly. He doesn't argue otherwise and doesn't respond when Brad says, "Thanks," and leaves. 

Ten minutes after Brad has settled into his seat, Doc fetches him again and this time Brad leads the way. The door to Patterson's office hasn't even slid shut when Brad settles down into the chair. Something about Patterson's demeanor -- his tight shoulders but easy smile -- makes Brad think that he doesn't particularly give a shit whether or not Brad hacks his way through the entirety of Battle School, but has to call him in anyway as a formality.

"You think you're capable of not looking like a smartass for about two minutes?" Patterson asks after a while.

Brad catches on. "Video feed?"

"Just don't look up," Patterson says as confirmation.

Brad nods, makes it look good for the cameras. "Figures this steel toilet bowl wouldn't have audio capabilities," he tells Patterson. 

"Well, you just earned yourself some free rein inside this toilet bowl. Apparently you're doing something right."

"Or they're interested in specifically what I'll choose to do wrong next," Brad corrects. "I lay the yellow brick road, they follow in my wake."

"I can't speak for their final destination, but if Oz is where they want to go, then I suppose they might be doing exactly that."

Brad nods his smart-ass nod again. Patterson will probably let him get away with it. "Behind every Battle School kid follows a group of unimaginative, desperate adults who can't think for themselves. I'm okay with being a puppet, for now."

Patterson puts his elbows on his desk and steeples his fingers, real dramatic-like. "You're probably wondering why I'm being so frank." 

"Sure."

"You would've seen through any lies in a microsecond, so I figured I would save us both some time," Patterson says. "So: yes, you've got implicit permission to do whatever weird research you want to."

"Until?" Brad asks, already knowing the answer.

"Until you don't," Patterson responds. 

"And to what end?"

"That's a mystery to both of us," Patterson says. "You want me to sing and dance for you next?"

"No, sir. No offense intended." 

"Dismissed," Patterson says, then adds, "And Brad. I hope for your sake that you'll turn out to be more than just a bricklayer."

Of course by the time he gets back to class, word has already gotten around about Brad being called into Patterson's office because Battle School is the size of a tin can and nobody has anything better to do than discuss other people's business. He spins an easy lie about getting caught trying to mess with Command's files.

"And you didn't get iced?" Ray gapes from his desk. "Goddamn, Brad, they're really up your asshole, aren't they."

"Teachers reward you for the weirdest stuff," Walt drawls. "Bet they're trying to trick you into doing something."

"Psychological brainwashing," Ray nods.

"What else kind of brainwashing can there be?" Trombley asks, and miracle of miracles, Ray doesn't have a comeback.

"Trombley, my man, your stupid question, for once, wasn't stupid." Ray claps him on the back. "But don't take too much pride in that, because a broken clock is right two times a day."

"What is that, a midwestern adage from your hick mother?" Brad asks from behind his book.

"My hick mother's the one who gave birth to this fine mathematical mind," Ray points to his head, "so fuck off."

As per Brad's expectations, that's the last time Patterson calls him in for a rote lecture. When he gets bored, he breaks the code on some network games and inserts splices of some porn he'd managed to get his hands on. Or he signs in as one of seven user-names he'd memorized from his launch group and sends inflammatory messages that slander the teachers and the iron womb of Battle School in general. Occasionally he tries to dig into info about the First Expedition, but of course he doesn't find anything. The staff don't tell him to stop; they don't tell him anything. But Brad knows they're watching. 

They're letting him break the rules. Brad is going to take advantage of that for as long as possible. As to _why_ they're letting him break the rules, the correct answer is probably the easiest one: they only became interested in Brad within the context of Nate Fick. So Brad probably has a role in all this, too. He just doesn't know what it is quite yet. 

On the outside, Brad is a model student in a way he never tried to be on Earth. Test scores are tacked up on boards outside the classrooms, and his name is in the top five enough times for him to establish some sort of reputation as the guy with the book-learning smarts. In the battle room, he lasts long enough during each skirmish to establish a reputation as the guy with the fighting smarts. People start knowing who he is.

He studies. He does his homework. He practices in the battle rooms. Rinse. Repeat. He still wants to be a good soldier, even if he might also be a lot of other things along the way.


	2. Chapter 2

"...the most elite minds in the world, and all of them are under twenty years old. Battle School, a collaboration between the IF and NASA, is situated near Phobos, one of two moons that orbit Mars. The curriculum is highly classified, ..."

* * *

Everyone's being a fucking Chatty Cathy because today's the day they might get transferred into armies. Those who don't make the cut will spend another few months as launchies, which doesn't bode well for their future at School. The mess hall is teeming with overexcited kids eating like morons, being all giddy and shit. Brad is sitting at the end of one of the tables, surrounded by Ray and a few others in their launch group that Ray hasn't managed to drive away; Trombley, Walt, Lilley, Gabe.

"Man, I was already in good fucking shape before I left," Ray is bragging. He has protein soup all over his lips. "You guys don't even know."

Lilley rolls his eyes. He jerks his thumb at Ray and says, "This guy. Seriously, bro."

The rest of the guys snort. Ray bats Lilley's hand away. "Fuck you. Seriously. I ran cross-country and wrestled and I was rolling on so many drugs. Lean as a motherfucker. Like, two-percent body fat, I'm not kidding."

"Dude, that's just a fancy way of saying you were a whiskey-tango meth-head who ran a sub-five 40 only when the cops were chasing you," Gabe scoffs.

"Please. Brad. Back me up here."

Some of the guys near the other end of the table scowl. "Quit trying to impress him, it's fucking sad," someone says almost inaudibly.

Ray leans over the table to respond. "I'm not trying to impress him, you Commie-loving fuck, I'm just talking out of my ass. Jesus Christ, these are the smartest kids on Earth? Give me a fucking break."

About half the table laughs. Brad pats Ray's head and says, "Ray-ray is one of those real special smart kids. You know, the ones who can't tell his asshole from his mouth, but if someone spills a box of toothpicks on the floor, he can count them in a jiffy."

"Thanks, Pops," Ray sighs. "You know, if you were waving around an empty bottle of whiskey, it'd really feel like home."

"This _is_ home," Lilley declares. "And this is hell. Therefore, home is hell. Transitive property, bitches."

Trombley screws his face up, as if he knows something about that is wrong but he can't quite pinpoint it. Ray preemptively shushes him and starts tripping over his own words again.

"Totally. Battle School is hell, because it's actually for retards. Think about it." He taps his temple. "They're weeding us out so that they can cultivate the real geniuses back on Earth. Why else would 200 people voluntarily sign up to fart around in space every year?"

Walt reaches over and tries to clamp his hand over Ray's mouth, but Ray leans away. "No, listen! They give you this dumb fucking test and ask you to rearrange some goddamn blocks, and boom. You're spacebound, my man, supposedly in the top zero-point-zero-zero-one percent in terms of brainpower. That's how they get your ass to sign up for this shit! They get you all hard with flattery and next thing you know, you're getting ass-fucked in deep space. And once you're done with Battle School, they always send you on to something else. Tactical. Navigational. Support. Pre-Command. Command. _You never go planetside again_ ," Ray finishes with emphasis. "It's a fucking joke. Hope you said goodbye to your families, boys, because that was the last you'll ever see of them."

As with all of Ray's diatribes, it's followed by a long silence while everyone pretends not to mull over his crazy shit that might actually make sense. 

"So if you know all this, then why did you sign up?" Walt finally asks.

A wide grin spreads across Ray's face. "Spending my prime years in a ship that's 99% men? I'm in heaven, bro."

Several pieces of food get thrown at Ray. Brad grins and slurps up the rest of his disgusting protein soup. When they come back from mess, Trombley, Ray, Brad, and Walt all have identical slips of paper on their pillows.

BRAD COLBERT

ASSIGNED TO: DEVIL DOG ARMY  
COMMANDER: CRAIG SCHWETJE  
TOON: FIVE  
TOON LEADER: NATHANIEL FICK

*

There's nothing to take with them. Uniforms will be provided in army colors and their new tablets are waiting at the barracks as well. Those who didn't get promoted make no effort to hide their sullenness; those who did get promoted make no effort to hide their excitement. Only Brad and Walt keep quiet about it, although Walt still gets ribbed by the other kids as he leaves. Brad doesn't.

When they get to the barracks, the only empty bunks are the shittiest ones at the front, in full view of the corridor. They've been stripped of the sheets and blankets, which are piled up into a corner in a jumbled, wet mess. Brad doesn't really want to think about what might be soaking through them. With a stoic expression, he heads to the third set of bunks, silently claiming the top one by taking out the tablet from the locker and setting a new password on it. 

"Good morning, gents," says a voice from behind him. Brad straightens up and turns around to face Nate Fick for the first time. 

Up close, Nate is taller than he seems, and thinner. He has an angular face and a sharp gaze that's somehow also soft and tired at the same time. Resigned, almost. Brad tries to picture him blasting aliens to pieces, or plastered across billboards and spaceships as propaganda back on Earth as the hero of the Second Expedition. Neither image fits. At this point, Brad feels like he knows Nate so thoroughly that having him a few feet away and being addressed directly is off-putting, but he knows none of that shows. The dumbshits in his launch class call him _Iceman_ ; it's fitting, but Brad doesn't want to admit that. 

Ray and the others are already at attention. There's no recognition on Nate's face, nor a trace of interest as he looks them over. "Looks like they cleaned me out," he states. "No veterans in this group, correct?"

"No, sir," they chorus in unison. 

"Well, I'm Nate Fick, your toon leader. Orientation will come later, after class. Make sure you're back in barracks for free play and we'll head to the practice rooms," Nate instructs. His eyes flit to their name patches only once. "You're dismissed until then."

"Sir," they confirm. 

Everyone else turns back to their new bunks, but Brad catches up to Nate in a few strides. "Sir," he begins. 

Nate stops and nods at him. "Brad."

They stare at each other. "Something you want?" Nate prods, when Brad doesn't say anything.

For the first time in months, he doesn't have an answer. What does he want? He wants to know if he's right about what the IF has planned. He wants to know how much Nate knows about this Battle School bullshit. He wants to know if Nate sees through their manipulations. He wants to know Nate for himself, and not just from computer documents. But Brad can't very well say that that's what he wants. He can work with Nate, though. Be close to him. 

He says, "I want to be second toon leader."

"Second toon leader," Nate echoes.

"Correct. Sir."

"You're asking me for something like that the same day you were promoted from the amoebic ooze of a launchy group?" 

"I may be a fresh launchy, but I'm the best soldier you've got. You know it and Schwetje knows it."

"Do we really?" Nate asks mildly. "I see no reason why we should. You've never been in a proper army. You haven't fought in battles. I haven't even seen you practice -- which would be pointless anyway, since most launchies can't even piss straight without a helping hand. Yes, you were promoted unusually quickly, but so was half of your launch group."

Brad's expression holds steady, a look of polite if detached attention, but inside he's seething. Commanders and toon leaders should be tracking every shift in the launchy rankings in prep for army promotions. Either Nate is lying through his teeth, or he really is unaware of everything else going on around him. Both options kick Brad's opinion of him down a few pegs.

"And it doesn't matter if I know it or not," Nate continues. "It's your job to show me. No one gives a shit about whiny launchy turds otherwise."

He only walks away when Brad twitches his head in understanding.

Back on Earth, he would go kick in some furniture, maybe smash some holes into walls. Here at Battle School, he takes a few deep breaths just like how Rudy had shown him, then goes down to the gym and does push-ups until his whole body is shaking. One face-to-face with the fearless leader and Brad's more keyed up than he's been the whole time at Battle School.

By the time he finishes up at the gym and takes a shower, it's already free play. Brad goes back to the barracks. Most of the bunks are empty except for Toon Five; Ray is literally just lying there staring at the ceiling as he scratches his balls. Brad hefts himself onto his bunk and pretends to play a game on his computer. In actuality, he's looking past the top edge of the screen and idly staring at Nate a few bunks down. He's working on some math problem, judging by the rapid write-erase-write patterns of his stylus, his face ducked close to the tablet. The crown of his head catches the reflection of the overhead lights. His jumpsuit fits a little loosely, but all that means is that Battle School has shitty resources. Everyone enrolled is required to spend an hour in the gym every day.

At 1600, Brad's eyes slide back to his computer screen as Nate puts his tablet aside and climbs down from his bunk. "Okay, Toon Five, let's go. Grab your flash suits," Nate orders loudly, already starting to make his way down the aisle. He doesn't turn around to check that they're all following. Ray's practically hanging out of his jumpsuit, apparently having fallen asleep, but he gets everything buttoned up as they exit into the hallway.

"There will be toon practice every day at 1600 for an hour, in addition to the whole-army ones at 0800. I keep my toon separate from the rest of Commander Schwetje's army on some fronts," Nate tells them as they walk. "All toons work together, but ours has a little space to mess with some unorthodox methods. That means you'll be learning stuff that most people haven't seen before, but that also means you'll have to show up for the extra practices. I focus on formations and tactics. If you want to be a cowboy and just wave your gun around, you can ask the Commander for a toon transfer. No hard feelings," Nate says, sounding both easy-going and authoritative at the same time.

"Aw, man," Trombley mutters as they come to a stop outside the battle rooms.

Nate tilts his head. "What was that?"

"Nothing, sir. Trombley's just excited to shoot his load, as always," Ray answers.

Nate smiles faintly. He puts on his helmet. "Alright, then, let's see what you can do."

As soon as they enter the battle room, it feels different. Nate doesn't use a hook to get around like most toon leaders or commanders, probably because it's easy to become dependent on it and forget the fact that they're not allowed for real battles. The only handicap he uses are the handholds, and only in the beginning. He has them run through directional drills first. Even after all their training in zero-grav, it's still hard to bypass the initial panic of the entire world reeling away from you in one fell swoop.

"Good. That's good, Ray, but you're still having trouble letting go of directional thinking," Nate tells him. "Just remember: the enemy's gate is down. That's it."

"So by down, you mean south, right?" Ray replies, and seems happy when Nate grins in response.

"Person, you're such a pube," Trombley drawls.

"Go fuck yourself, you goddamn mouthbreather," Ray shoots back. "I'm gonna laser your balls off in your sleep and juggle them around in my hand as stress-relievers."

"You're gonna juggle his balls around in your hand? That's kind of gay," Walt muses. 

"Only on Earth," Ray dismisses, waving around a gloved hand. "Here, I can chalk everything off as space exploration."

"My balls aren't open for exploration," Trombley says defensively.

"That's what you say now, sure," says Ray. "But baby, you might actually like it."

"I've heard enough about Trombley's balls to last me a goddamn lifetime," Brad interjects as he floats by.

"Now you made him mad," Walt informs Trombley and Ray, as if Brad can't hear him through his earpiece.

Brad adjusts his angle by opening up his right hip slightly. The change in direction brings Nate into view; he's just floating there, silent, observing, even as Ray and Trombley start yapping at each other again through comms.

 _"It's your job to show me,"_ Nate had said. 

Mission fucking accepted.

*

The night before Devil Dogs' first battle with their new roster, Toon Five has a skirmish in one of the battle rooms, each man for himself. It takes almost ten minutes for one of them to freeze out, and that's only because Walt miscalculates and gets caught in a corner. Ray finishes him off after that, leaving him to float around the room making loud noises that could be curses, if his helmet wasn't frozen and clamping his jaw down. But Ray's the next to go, due to Trombley getting a clean shot to his torso. Brad gets Trombley, and then it's just him and Nate remaining.

The battle room is barely lit, like a movie theater after the house lights go down, but punches of red light illuminate the space every time Nate or Brad fires their pistol. Nate moves fluidly and has unbelievably precise control over his movements. He also has no trouble with null gravity, but Brad's good now on that front, too. It almost seems like it's going to end in a draw until Brad gets lucky -- Nate's back is exposed as he rebounds off a corner, and Brad manages to freeze him with a single pull of the trigger, despite the fact that he's spinning in three directions at once.

"Finally!" Ray yells as he floats through the middle of the room at a glacial speed.

The room lights come back on as Brad reorients himself and kicks off the bottom wall, gentle enough to float by Nate at a leisurely pace. He grabs onto Nate's suit and they change trajectory together, with Brad's momentum taking them both toward the gate headfirst. Brad's hanging on to Nate so that they're face-to-face, but in null grav, it could just as easily be that they're on top of each other.

"I beat you, sir," Brad states.

Nate has a strange expression, a little half-smile that Brad can't look away from. A lifetime passes before they're at the gate, where Brad grabs the hook and unfreezes all of them. Walt, Ray, and Trombley immediately start razzing each other, but Nate exits the battle room and then stands so still and quiet that Brad briefly considers a malfunction with the flash suit. Battle School really does have shitty resources -- and not only that, but after a few weeks with Devil Dog army, Brad is starting to see that they also make shitty decisions in promoting officers. Like Brad's own commander, for instance. He can see why Nate had turned down the offer for command. To be lumped in with creatures like Schwetje was more of an insult than anything.

"Get out of there, guys, it's almost lights-out," Nate calls without taking his eyes off Brad. In a softer voice, he says, "Good job."

Approval from Nate is always this real sincere affair. Brad just looks away and grunts, "Thank you," as he takes off his helmet. He shoves it underneath his arm and then stands still again, seeing as how Nate keeps looking at him.

"Is there a reason for all the scrutiny, sir?" he finally asks.

Nate turns his head as the rest of the guys come through, like he's waking up from a trance. The view of the battle room disappears when he punches some buttons on the keypad to close the gate. He leads the way out, and Brad realizes that he's not going to be getting an answer.

"Shit, we're gonna be late for lights-out," Walt announces, picking up his pace.

"What, you afraid of the dark, Hasser?" Trombley teases.

The three of them pull ahead, but Brad follows a half-step behind Nate all the way to the barracks. When they reach Brad's bunk, Brad asks, "Do you ever think about command, sir?"

Nate seems as unfazed as ever. "I think about it. Next time you should ask me if I ever consider it," he answers. He starts picking his way through the aisle, toward his own bunk further in, then pauses and says, "Good night, Brad."

Brad nods. Ray's already watching some kind of anime porn on his computer, barely even looking up as Brad tosses his shit into his locker and climbs onto the bunk. Most of the army is still awake in anticipation of the battle and Brad feels amped up too, with a bright buzz of energy running beneath his skin as if the adrenaline from their skirmish hasn't worn off yet. 

He'd beaten Nate. It's difficult to assign a singular emotion to that. Satisfying, sure. Proud. Powerful. But mostly he wants to see that expression on Nate's face again. He wants to be responsible for that expression. 

Wynn had said, _he's the only person in this goddamn septic tank that I'd follow into battle_. Sounded like a melodramatic Hollywood line that should have been accompanied by a lone trumpet tooting some Americana melody in the background. The thing is, Brad is actually starting to understand what Wynn was trying to say. 

Tinny anime moans are leaking out from Ray's headphones, which makes it hard to focus on sleep. He's not really in the mood for a bunk jack, and even though it keeps him awake for almost an hour longer than normal, he manages to keep his hands curled underneath his pillow until he finally drifts off.

*

Battle is at 2000, against Griffin Army. Most of the guys skip dinner, choosing instead to loll around in the barracks, either staring blankly at the walls or clicking random things on their tablets. Ray goes to the padded launchy room and serenely floats around by himself, sans flash suit. Patterson has to go in himself and pull him out.

It shouldn't even be a big deal. The whole concept of battles and winning these stupid games is classic IF bullshit that blind dogs would be able to see through, but Brad finds himself walking the corridors aimlessly. He ends up in the bathrooms and stares at his reflection. _They brainwashed you too,_ he thinks. At the same time, he wants it -- he wants to win. Maybe he really is no different from the rest of the sociopathic garbage here.

He shifts his gaze when someone knocks on the wall. It's Trombley. "Hey Brad. Nate told me to come get you. It's time to suit up," he calls.

Getting sniffed out by Trombley. Embarrassing. Brad nods and says okay, then follows Trombley back to the barracks. He puts on his flash suit and falls in line with everyone else in a rote manner, thinking about nothing, watching the back of Nate's head as they walk. When the whole army is assembled by their gate, Schwetje starts talking about team maneuvers and all kinds of contradicting tactics. Each toon can only hear each other over comms during battle, but toon leaders have their own channel, and everyone can hear the commander. Brad practices tuning him out and glances around instead, recognizing the same look on everyone's face -- nervous, focused, an almost hungry expression.

The wall timer starts blinking backward from 00:10. Nate steps slightly to the side and his toon follows. "Okay," he says, as if it's just them. His smile is obscured when he puts on his helmet. "Show me what you got."

The gate hisses open to reveal a mostly empty battle room. There are a few stars, closer to the outer edges, but the middle is unprotected. Brad hears multiple staticky breaths crackling through his earpiece as he stares into the dark maw beyond the gate. He wrenches his body into motion and swings in before his brain can catch up. 

For a brief moment, he's zipping through space completely alone. The speed is exhilarating. He suddenly lapses into the memory of catching a perfect pre-dawn wave, sun starting to spill orange on the horizon as the water pulled him in to shore. He wonders what time it is back in San Diego, thinks about home for a brief moment only to realize he can't really picture it anymore. It feels like a foreign memory, images he conjured up from someone else's stories.

Brad snaps back to the present when someone -- Trombley? -- starts hollering some kind of war cry over comms and the whole room lights up with strings of red and green light. Both armies are coming through the gates en masse now. 

_The enemy's gate is down_.

He shifts into a kneeling position while still falling toward Griffin's gate. His legs get frozen almost immediately but he uses that to his advantage as a shield for the rest of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Ray in the exact same position, pistol shoved between his knees and making Griffin scatter like ants with each pull of the trigger. He knows Trombley and Walt are probably behind him as well, exactly as they run through in practice every single day. 

"They look like toast already," Trombley says. 

Brad's about to put on his mother hen act but it's Ray who cuts through first: "Focus, shithead."

Nate's orders come through comms and Brad lets muscle memory take over, automatically following commands as they come. The first five minutes seem like five hours, probably adrenaline causing sensory overload. Brad tries to study all the movement going on, but that leaves his left arm drifting out to the side and he realizes it only after he gets hit and it locks in place. "Shit," he curses, hefting his weapon into his right hand.

Nate's voice cuts through cleanly. "Brad, maneuver on top of the star to your left. There's half a toon making their way toward you -- "

"Got it," Brad confirms. 

_The enemy's gate is down_.

Zero grav reminds him of that one Escher drawing, with the staircases that ignore gravity. Letting go of Earth's conditioning has to be a conscious decision for every single goddamn second in the battle room. It's a lesson that maybe Griffin hasn't learned yet, seeing as how he's able to take out three guys by himself as they float by unprotected, not expecting an attack from above. 

"Thank you, Brad," Nate says. Brad wants to laugh at how prim it sounds. He could have been thanking a waiter for bringing over an extra napkin. 

The rest of the battle has dissolved into random small group combat while Schwetje appears to be cartwheeling in no particular direction, although Brad can see Nate and other toon leaders motioning, clearly trying to work something out with him over comms. At least Toon Three is doing some interesting stuff involving flanking the gate at different angles but otherwise it's a damn mess. The only reason they win is because Griffin clearly has their own crop of new launchies who don't know their head from their ass. After the last Griffin soldier freezes out, Garza from Toon Three and Trombley sail through the room and press their helmets against the small pads at either end of the enemy gate to open it. Ray is the one who floats through, signaling Devil Dogs' official victory, and then he disappears onto the deck as the lights come back on.

By the time Brad swings through the gate himself, Ray is already half out of his flash suit, hollering something about Griffin and dicks and loose assholes. Brad barely has a chance to get resituated to gravity before Ray is trying to tackle him. 

"Brad, I changed my mind. I love Battle School," Ray breathes, looking up at Brad with wide eyes. "Who knew I would have such a boner for like, lasers and shit, you know? I thought it was gonna be just some dumbass game."

"For once in your life, I understand where you're coming from, Ray," Brad says, patting Ray on the head. And Jesus, he really must be on a high too, to say that out loud. These Battle School fucks have been cultivating this psycho killer shit in them from the start, stoking natural human instinct; victory and violence triggering the flood of dopamine into neural pathways, reward system lighting up like a forest fire.

The rest of the army comes trickling in two or three at a time, whooping and screaming, gravitating toward their own toons. Ray continues blabbing on with a detailed recap -- apparently Trombley had somehow gotten tangled up on a star and shot himself in his own damn leg -- but he actually stops when Nate finally comes through. Everyone else has already headed back to barracks or showers, taking the noise with them and leaving only the hum of lights.

Nate tracks his gaze over each of them individually. "Good job, team. Thank you," he tells them. He looks at Brad last, with his soft eyes, then smiles and nods before following the rest of Devil Dogs back to their quarters without another word. They watch him go, cutting a lone figure in the hallway.

"I feel like my mom kissed my forehead good night," Trombley says in that slow voice of his. "Why does it feel so good?"

"Because competency seems like a rare thing here?" Walt suggests.

"Because you've spent your whole life longing for love you never got from your withholding parents and this is what it feels like," Ray says.

Trombley scoffs as they start walking through the hull. "My mom was never even home enough to not love me."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Trombley. Sometimes I pray that we're actually annihilated by alien bugs because you're proof that the human race has devolved too far to recover," Ray sighs.

"You wish, dude. The First Expedition's probably fucked them all up by now, so too bad for you."

"Yeah, more proof there is no god," Ray muses.

Trombley actually cracks a smile at that, and Walt pushes his helmet against Ray's shoulder. "Look at you guys, getting along so swell."

"Just feeling particularly magnanimous after that whole thing." Ray waves him off, then skips ahead down the hallway. 

Brad watches him go, silently reveling in the victory. They pass a corner camera right past the entrance to Deck B; he stares into the black iris, hoping someone is watching. Patterson, or maybe even Godfather. _See? I'm playing your game. I'll even fucking beat you at it_.

*

After that first win, battles become their singular focus. While schoolwork was previously as easy as ABC and 123, the toon starts sleeping through most morning classes in favor of busting their ass on two-a-days, and Brad is getting grades he hasn't seen since his third-grade penmanship module. Even Ray spends lectures passed the fuck out in full view of the teachers, who clearly prefer that kind of silent disrespect over Ray mouthing off for the entirety of the hour. But Brad doesn't give a shit and neither do the others. When he opens his eyes, he's thinking about the battle room. When he's doing his homework, he's thinking about the battle room. When lights out rolls around, he's thinking about the battle room, at least in the five seconds it takes before he crashes into sleep.

More kids start icing out, many on their own accord. Brad doesn't blame them. This kind of Thunderdome shit really only appeals to a special -- not in a good way -- kind of lizard-brained geniuses, himself included. When he's feeling particularly self-delusional, he tells himself he stays because if he didn't, then the Trombleys and the Scwhetjes of the world are gonna be the ones in power and fuck all that. 

Those who stay get meaner and more sharp. But day after day, Nate remains calm and unruffled. He looks at everyone the same way, with that mild expression that never slips, even during Schwetje's most severe cases of verbal diarrhea, or when Patterson pulls him into his office for who knows what. Odds are low that a 17-year-old military genius has achieved nirvana, so there has to be something under the surface. Maybe it's Brad's job to pull it out.


	3. Chapter 3

"...with the tenth anniversary of the First Expedition launch coming up, celebrations are to be had, but not without some controversy. There are small pockets of people who are wondering when, and even if, the group will return from their mission and what kind of plans the IF has in mind for the future…"

* * *

Casey Kasem is commander of Tiger Army, which is the post that Nate had turned down. Apparently it was well known that Kasem had gotten sloppy seconds and people didn't let him forget it. A couple weeks after transferring into Devil Dog, Brad happened to call him a chromosomally-deficient dickless son of a truckstop prostitute who took a late-night man-mustard injection, or something like that. Not his best work. Still, Kasem had taken it really personally and ever since then, he's been talking shit about Brad to everyone except Brad. More than a handful of people seem to be on Kasem's side, which, hey, good for them, dickless cretins really should stick together.

Now, after three months in armies, the rankings are out and while Nate is obviously at the top of the list, it also says _#9: BRAD COLBERT_ on the big screen in the mess hall for everyone to see. The first fresh transfer to come up, and the only one until Trombley at #21. As they wait in line after lunch to turn in their trays, Kasem keeps leaning in to whisper things at McGraw, another twat of a toon leader in Devil Dogs, although he's more stupid than anything else. Both are shooting looks at Brad, who's standing a few people behind them. Nate has had a target on his back since the day he launched, made all the more worse the longer he stays at rank #1, but all this attention is new for Brad and it's not a positive thing. Being noticed comes hand in hand with vulnerability. 

"Ignore him," Ray dismisses, hooking his chin over Brad's shoulder and speaking almost directly into his ear. "He's got an inferiority complex as wide as his mother can spread her legs."

"How wide's that?" Brad asks.

"Oh, wide, Brad. Really wide. It could possibly be the next national landmark, kind of like the Grand Canyon."

The line slowly moves forward until Brad gets to deposit his tray into one of the sinks. Everyone is filing out into the hallway, dispersing into classrooms and barracks. Kasem, however, is waiting for Brad outside of mess. Brad goes to walk past him but he steps forward, sneering when Brad looks at him coldly.

"Brad fucking Colbert," Kasem states.

"Hell yeah, who the fuck are you?" Ray replies from behind Brad. His voice is a siren call for people itching to watch a fight. Sure enough, guys start slowing down to see what's going on.

"Casey, let's think about this," Brad says conversationally. "It's probably not the greatest idea you've had, even for that rotting lump of tripe in your head that you call your brain. I'm either going to kill you or you're going to ice out. They're not very appealing options."

"You only wish I'd get iced," Kasem replies, still with that stupid look on his face. "I just wanted to ask you a simple question: how'd you even get up that high in the rankings anyway? Huh? Been giving blowjobs to your toon leader in exchange for him pulling some strings?"

Ray starts in with his, "You jealous fucking cocksucker," spiel, and someone gleefully murmurs, "Iceman's gonna snap any second." An instinctive hesitation has Brad wondering how far to go. Some kids are harmless, but there are more than a few that have a sinister streak and Kasem falls into the latter category. 

Before he can make up his mind, Kasem shoves him hard -- but then it's not Brad who comes out of nowhere and grabs Kasem's arm and expertly twists it up behind his back, far enough so that it nudges the breaking point. 

It's Nate.

"Do we have a problem here, Kasem?" Nate asks calmly. He might as well be asking what time it is.

"No," Kasem pants. His mouth is open, face screwed up in pain. "No, no. We don't."

"Glad to hear it." Nate pushes for another second or so before letting go. Kasem immediately cradles his arm to his chest and slumps against the wall while the rest of them stand there looking at him. Nate studiously avoids Brad's eyes and instead watches Kasem unfeelingly for a few seconds before he ambles off. As if that's some sort of signal, the crowd gets moving again, conversations about homework and the rankings and practice times spreading throughout the hallway.

"Holy shit yo, our toon leader's a fucking psychopath," Ray says, and he couldn't sound happier about it.

*

Following that, Brad can't seem to get Nate alone. He's usually being flanked by Poke and Wynn, or turning into a classroom before Brad can catch up to him. Probably a conscious decision, since the mess hall incident seems to have ratcheted up the bloodthirst in the populace. After practices, he only acknowledges them with a head nod before being buoyed away with the rest of the army. Evening practices with the toon still have an audience of three, which may as well be three thousand since Ray's included, so Brad bides his time.

Clearly he'd missed this side of Nate during all his research. There was a small mention of an incident back on Earth, something about fighting back against bullies, but no other references post-launch. He wonders if the IF is aware, and decides that's a stupid question. It's probably a big reason why Nate's about to inherit the crown of The Chosen One. The IF isn't exactly into spending billions of dollars to train holistic, tender, kumbaya soldiers. 

Brad is sitting on his bunk and scratching through homework when Nate returns from a meeting with Schwetje, only to grab his towel and head off again, alone. Physics is in two minutes but Brad takes his chance without rethinking it, shoving his tablet into the locker and hopping down to follow. It's easy to track Nate's progress through the hallways; it's also easy to see how many other soldiers are doing so as well. He speeds up a little and steps into the showers only a few seconds after Nate, who's standing there fully-clothed and waiting for Brad, apparently. There's no one else in there.

"Sir," Brad says.

Nate looks at him. He's fiddling with one of the dials so that a few drops of water plop from the showerhead before he shuts it back off. On, off. On, off. "I figured you'd follow me here," he says.

"Magnanimous of you to wait for me."

Nate huffs out a laugh. "Well?"

Brad tries to map out how to play this conversation. He decides to keep it simple. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't fight my battles for me again."

"That wasn't my intention," Nate replies. He examines the aqua tiles. "I'm your toon leader, it's my job to make sure you guys stick around, preferably intact." 

"Honestly sir, that sounds like a crock of slow-cooked shit. You had no reason to step in."

Nate's still messing with the dial. "I reacted badly, you're right. Poor impulse control. I'm sorry if I cost you any respect."

"I couldn't give less of a shit about respect, sir. My point is, you do know that half of these assholes would love to see your head on a pike, right? And you just gave them a good excuse to try it."

"This isn't some kind of post-apocalyptic space anarchy," Nate says lightly. "There are people watching everything that happens. They wouldn't let anyone get seriously hurt."

Brad stares at him. "I guess part of it isn't a lie -- there are people watching you, we both know that."

Nate finally glances up then, sharp, the guise of levity dissolving so fast that Brad realizes he's not actually the one with the upper hand here. Some kind of stress response flips on, floods him with an edgy hyper-awareness he usually only experiences in battles, and it occurs to him suddenly -- so suddenly and so goddamn obvious that he wonders if he's somehow been lobotomized in his sleep: Nate knows. Nate knows about the IF's plans for him, about how Battle School is a meaningless vehicle to an unwinnable war, about how he's poised to be humanity's diamond in the fucking rough. Of course he knows. He knows and he's accepted it, or at least he thinks he has. 

Seeing Nate without the usual bland mask feels inherently dangerous, like Brad is holding out a hand for a wild animal to sniff at, the decision of whether or not to attack being entirely at their whim. Brad easily has four inches on him but knows better than to underestimate the situation. 

"How much do you know?" Nate asks.

"Enough," Brad replies. "The staff here has the subtlety of Ray with an airhorn in his ass. So the First Expedition really is deep space fucked?"

Nate is staring at a spot by Brad's foot so intensely that Brad wonders if he's having some kind of absence seizure. "When I first got here, we all had this game on our tablets," he eventually says, as if this is an appropriate answer. "The objective was to make it to fairyland, but you had to get past this giant first."

"A giant," Brad repeats.

"The thing is, you never won. They rigged it so that you couldn't win. But I won." Nate meets Brad's gaze. "Turns out the whole thing was actually some psychology test masquerading as a children's video game. They were watching the whole time."

It's easy to imagine -- Nate, tirelessly playing a stupid, unbeatable game until the game itself changed, and the teachers watching from the other side of the screen. As soon as Brad gets why Nate brought it up in the first place, he can't help but laugh.

"Sir. I assure you I'm not an IF puppet sent to manipulate you or burrow into your brain. I'm not the enemy here."

"Then what are you?"

"Whatever you need me to be. An ally, at the very least."

"I already have allies," Nate counters. Neither of them acknowledge that they're far outnumbered by the teachers, Godfather, Kasem, and all the other murderous pricks with too much testosterone.

Brad studies him. "All due respect -- but do you ever think they have the wrong guy?"

"There isn't really time to explore that possibility," Nate says, though he looks pained, "and that's a hell of a chance to take."

"Well then we're all space dust if some asshole here guts you in the hallway before you can even move on to Command School."

Nate smiles absently; the mask slides back on. When he resumes fiddling with the knob, Brad reaches out and clamps his hand around Nate's wrist. "There was an audience this time but what if someone comes after you when you're alone?"

"It's too late to do anything about it," Nate says evenly. "Let go of me."

"Jesus Christ. Sir, do you have any self-preservation instincts at all?"

Nate's eyes narrow the tiniest bit. "Let. Go," he bites out.

Brad tightens his grip.

Almost at the same time, Nate's free hand swings to Brad's gut, but Brad is prepared for it. He steps into the punch before Nate can put the force of his body behind it and shoves him. Nate flails off-balance for a split second; as Brad moves forward, Nate tucks his body into the fall and rolls with it, kicking out and making solid contact with Brad's kneecap.

Brad goes down with a hissed, "Fuck." It feels like a bomb went off in his leg, a mushroom cloud of pain exploding outward. Before he can acclimate to it, he sees something moving in his periphery and instinctively rolls away before Nate's fist can make contact with his face. Nate's now in a vulnerable position, but Brad uses the time to recenter. He spiders his hands by his head, takes a deep breath, and flips himself upright again, hopping around on his good leg.

"So you do have emotions," he pants, just before Nate punches him in the mouth and his head snaps back.

"This is what you wanted to see?" Nate asks. His forehead is shiny with sweat, eyes lit up in an unfamiliar way. Brad doesn't bother answering in the affirmative.

After a few feints, Brad manages to hit Nate's nose with the heel of his wrist. He swings his leg out, solidly connecting an ankle with Nate's chest and making him stumble back. Capitalizing on the opportunity is easy now -- he darts forward and pushes Nate so that he hits the wall. Before he can move away, Brad is already there, pinning him with one forearm pressed over and across his collarbones, free hand grabbing his chin to hold his head still. Both of them are breathing hard. Brad leans all his weight onto his arm, even though Nate only struggles for a few seconds. There's a slow trickle of blood coming out of his left nostril and Brad automatically wipes at it with a knuckle. 

"You fucking," Nate starts, and this is an occasion because he rarely curses, but Brad ruins it by kissing him, still holding his chin in place. Brad's aware that his teeth have cut into his lip and that he's bleeding. He's probably not thinking straight either, high off adrenaline and endorphins and whatever-the-fuck. He does it anyway.

Nate is absolutely still in the beginning, but then he's reciprocating as much as Brad allows him to without completely letting up on the advantage. When he bites the spot on Brad's lip that's already swelled up and bleeding, Brad pushes more of his weight onto Nate. The noises they're making are inordinately loud compared to how quiet the rest of the room is. Just the low humming of air circulation and the occasional rustle of their jumpsuits as Brad takes his hand off Nate's chin and moves it around to cup the back of his neck instead.

It's Brad who breaks the kiss. He pulls back but keeps his arm against Nate. "I'm bleeding," he says.

Nate shifts his head and spits. It barely clears Brad's hand. "I know. So am I," he says. Then he knocks Brad's arms away, suckerpunches him again -- on the cheek this time -- and grabs onto his collar before Brad can fall backward. It all happens in under a second. 

"I would have had you if it weren't for those limbs, Colbert." And he actually smiles a little, a real one.

"Sir," Brad says thickly. He spits. It splatters pink on the tiles.

Nate lets go but steps in until he's barely a few inches away from Brad's face. Neither of them flinch. "Did you get what you wanted?" Nate finally asks.

"Did you?" Brad asks back steadily.

They step apart in unison at the sounds of someone else entering the showers. A sharp whistle pierces the air as Trombley surveys the scene and Ray comes in after him.

"Check it out, there's blood on the floor," Trombley points out. He whistles again.

"Whoa-ho-ho-ho," Ray crows with an awed look. "What the fuck is going on here? Is someone about to get court-martialed?"

"An exercise in adrenaline dumping, apparently," Nate replies, already settled back into a neutral demeanor. He wipes his nose with the collar of his jumpsuit, leaving behind a red smear. "I'm late for class. See you guys at practice."

He leaves without waiting for a response. Brad's mouth already hurts like a motherfucker, but he can't help smiling wide.

*

Morning practice ends early the next day to make time for an Advanced Earth-Gravity Combat Skills drill. Half the army are veterans, which means they've already passed the class and the next one or two series that come after it, which also means that half the army is poised to kick the other's ass out of orbit.

"This is fucked up," Gabe comments faintly, distracted by the sight of Poke eyeing him.

Walt pats his back. "Just pretend that we're gladiators about to fight in the Coliseum."

"Gladiators actually fought for honor," scowls Trombley. 

"What the fuck is the difference if your insides end up smeared all over the walls anyway?" Ray asks as he peels off his socks and tosses them in Trombley's general direction. 

"At least no one in this army's gonna kill you today, probably," Walt says, still patting Gabe's back. "Can't guarantee that if you get jumped by anybody else."

They divide up into parallel lines and rotate through two-minute sparring drills resembling violent speed dating. Nate moves in and out of Brad's view, dutifully attacking and parrying, beating everyone else with no trouble. At one point when paired with Rudy, he laughs, loose and un-self-conscious. It's easy to imagine him back on Earth, laughing that same laugh, unburdened by schoolwork and battles and commanding. Doing something stupid that teenagers do, like climbing up a water tower or stealing road signs in the middle of the night. 

Brad's chest suddenly feels full, even though his heart rate isn't even up yet. He has to look away for a second, to gather himself, and he gets an ankle to the face from Q-Tip for it. 

By the time Nate aligns with him, he's flagging on energy but Nate jumps in the air and twists into a precise spin-kick before the whistle even blows. His foot hits Brad's shoulder; Brad stumbles to the side and Nate's already trying to sweep him down but he manages to avoid it. With a sudden burst of energy, Brad hits him with a jab-cross to the chest, then crouches and drives them both down onto the ground. He ends up half on top of Nate's torso, one hand in a V against his windpipe. 

"Beat you again, sir," Brad says quietly. 

Nate closes his eyes and the image burns itself into Brad's brain. It occurs to him that he's watching some kind of silent internal struggle. "Do you remember what we're doing here?" he asks vaguely.

"Of course. Warrior training for the greatest army in human history."

"Maybe dial down the sarcasm a little bit."

"I'm dead serious, sir," Brad says. 

"Fine. Alright." Nate exhales. "Alright. I just needed a reminder."

"Glad to be of help in any way," Brad says, and Nate's eyes flicker open to give him an unreadable look. They're already spending too long in this position, but for some reason, Brad asks, "Why didn't you take that command post?" 

Nate doesn't seem surprised that Brad knows. "Are we doing a sparring Q&A now?"

"I'm trying to take the time to get to know my toon leader. Must get real lonely at the top for you guys."

"I'm middle management, but I appreciate the concern." Nate swallows and Brad can feel it under his hand. "Taking command of an army sets you apart from the soldiers. It gets impersonal and I like having my toon." 

Brad nods and starts letting up, preparing for a counterattack, but Nate still manages to catch him off guard -- a push to his chest makes him sit down, hard, and then Nate has him in a headlock from behind. There's a brief struggle before Brad is on his stomach, left arm twisted up and over his back. Nate's knee is sharp against his spine. His core muscles tense up as he struggles, chest off the floor, trying to buck Nate off, but he's pretty much dead weight and it's no use. 

He stills when Nate asks, "Yesterday, in the showers. Why did you do that?"

It's a dagger of a question, one that Brad still doesn't really have an answer for. He presses his forehead to the mats. Maybe Gabe was right to be wary; Nate has him pinned and could definitely do a lot worse. Sure, the rest of the army is there but everyone's too preoccupied with not getting their own necks broken to help. It'd be like drowning in the middle of a public pool. He wonders if there's a videofeed in this room, if someone else would come save him.

"Are you asking me as another soldier in this piss-poor iron lung, or are you ordering me to answer you as a superior, sir?" he asks. 

"You can't worm your way out just by getting me riled up," Nate replies from somewhere behind him. His legs are already full of pins and needles. How long would it take to inflict permanent damage? 

"Brad," he prompts again. 

"Because I wanted to. Why does anyone ever do anything like that?"

"Actions aren't always calculated," Nate says mildly. "There could've been many reasons."

After a brief pause, the pressure disappears and he rolls over on instinct. Nate is on one knee, quiet. They look at each other for a few seconds before Nate gets up and holds out a hand to Brad, who takes it immediately. As soon as he's balanced, he lets loose with flurry of easy kicks and a single jab at the end, all of which Nate dodges or slaps away lightly. Brad feels like he's passed some sort of test. 

He wants to ask about all kinds of things now, but he doesn't have the chance to get Nate into another submissive position before the class is wrapping up. Probably just in time -- there are more than a handful of people limping around or touching their faces gingerly. Everyone gathers their stuff and starts filing out into the hallway and Brad is almost out the door when Nate calls his name. 

"Come back on Thursday," Nate says. The mask is off again, or maybe Brad is getting better at seeing through it. "You could use some pointers and I have some free time on my hands."

*

It happens once, twice, and then every Thursday becomes a beacon. Brad trains harder during practice and pushes it in the gym until even Manimal starts taking notice. He learns that Nate is slightly stronger on his left side, only because he broke the opposite elbow when he was a kid, and that his speech gets clipped when he's expressing carefully guarded displeasure about Schwetje. They talk over potential battle room strategies and how best to utilize each toon member. If Brad gets one over on him, he wants to redo the sequence like some masochist. "Again," he always says, flushed and slightly out of breath.

He seems more clear afterward, more content. Brad finds himself disturbingly possessive over that. He can't tell if that's some kind of metaphor as well, or if it's only a caveman instinct for clinging on to whatever he can get from Nate, like a dog begging for and hoarding scraps.

One day Nate gets to their session about five minutes late. Brad can see the marks from twenty feet away but he waits until Nate's up close to say anything. "The fuck is that?" he asks, gesturing around his neck.

"Bruises," Nate answers simply. "Hey, I've been meaning to tell you: you always feint to your left."

Brad ignores him. "What, did you run into a door? The knob wrapped around your neck?"

But Nate doesn't acknowledge him, instead unbuttoning his jumpsuit in silence. There's a long list of who could've been responsible, the most obvious answer being Kasem and his crew, but Brad knows that's not a sure thing. Fragile egos are the norm in Battle School. People in general don't like knowing there's someone else who's better than them in any way, and smart shitheads with a chip on their shoulder even more so.

"You didn't even try to hide them?" Brad says finally, his way of acquiescing.

"I figured I'd look like an asshole if I tried to pop the collar on a jumpsuit," Nate says. "And you'd see it anyway as soon as I took the damn thing off. Is the third degree finished?"

Brad shucks off his shoes in response, but he can't help glancing at Nate a few times as the jumpsuit comes off all the way. It takes only a few seconds for him to pull on his warmups, but that's still enough time to see the bruise on his thigh, and the one on his lower back. Brad imagines someone's knee pressing into the spot, or maybe the heel of a boot. The shape could fit either. He cricks his jaw and doesn't say another word.

Nate's only a little delayed in his maneuvers but Brad has also mentally tagged the injuries and takes care to avoid them for the most part. There's an odd moment near the end, when Brad takes a couple running steps as a lead up to a front kick. At the last second he notices Nate actually drops his defense; somehow he manages to abort the movement and ends up running off the momentum, pushing Nate back against the wall instead. He goes easily, like he's forgotten where he is or what he's doing.

"Jesus," Brad says, heart pounding. He's holding onto Nate's arms. "I could've broken your ribs."

"Sorry," Nate says automatically. He blinks and seems to come back into himself. "Sorry," he says again, touching Brad's shoulder.

When Brad gets back to barracks, he ignores everyone and instead climbs up onto his bunk, immediately retrieving his tablet and opening up a new message. He sends it to Godfather and Patterson.

_Standing by for any interference at all. Isn't that what you're here for?_

It's nothing more than a passive-aggressive tattletale note, but Brad can't see any other choice. Mobilizing their army to act as bodyguards for Nate -- not even a commander, just a toon leader -- would be ludicrous, not to mention the fact that they'd probably be breaking some unspoken code between students. There were frequent brawls and people insulted each other as if they were getting paid for it with blowjobs, but nothing ever built up into something bigger. This would be creating something bigger. 

He doesn't expect a reply, and he doesn't get one.

*

Devil Dogs are in the middle of another win streak when Schwetje gathers them together for the third time that week and announces another battle. Half of the army is sacked out, although noise starts to pile on in layers as word travels down through the barracks. Walt is frowning and muttering something to Chaffin about command riding their asses -- "We just fucking beat Rat two days ago." Brad sits on his bunk, watching everything unfold with a peculiarly detached feeling, as if none of this involves him at all.

Nate and Wynn stop Schwetje before he can get back to his commander's cabin. The barracks are already full of complaints about the impending battle, but Brad can still hear Nate demanding, "Is this a mistake?"

"Nope. Got the orders right before lunch," Schwetje says proudly, and it's obvious that he thinks this reflects on his skills as a commander.

"This is the first time anyone's ever had three battles in a week," Wynn pushes.

"I guess they really like what they see." Schwetje brightens. "Oh, hey, Nate, if you could practice some of those burst tactics, that would be great. Whatever you guys were doing during the Mantis battle?"

"Sir," Nate nods. 

Now the barracks is fucking chaos, with yelling and cursing and people moving everywhere and no less than two objects airborne at any given moment, but Nate stays rooted as Schwetje walks away. A lighthouse in a storm. Brad stares at him until he shifts and meets his gaze for a long moment. There's that blank look again, the one Brad hasn't seen in awhile. 

They end up losing the battle, mostly due to army-wide exhaustion. A small part of Brad hopes that this means things will go back to normal; that this was just a one-time exercise by command to see how far they can push. But that's a long gone dream. Something's shifted, propelling the big, dumb IF gears forward. Another impending invasion, maybe? Pressure from the hegemony? Childish impatience from IF higher ups?

The battles keep coming after that, three a week. More kids ice out, but Nate stays. Brad does, too.


	4. Chapter 4

"..and critics are becoming more vocal, mostly due to concerns about what this kind of pressure and rigorous training can do to these young soldiers. There are reports of clinical depression, anxiety, PTSD, and other issues following their return planetside. Most information regarding the IF remains highly classified, including the locations of their Tactical, Pre-Command, and Command schools…"

* * *

After Brad finishes showering, morning freeplay is close to over so he screws around with a game on his tablet instead of working on a problem set. It's almost time for class when the notification pops up on screen: _Your schedule has changed, effective tomorrow 0600. Please see the updated calendar._

Brad glances around. This is out of the ordinary if only because it's the military and pretty much nothing is effective right away. Nobody else seems particularly disturbed except for Trombley, who's scowling at his tablet and gripping it like he's about to shake an Etch-a-Sketch that owes him money. 

Below him, Ray says, "Yo, what the fuck?"

"You too?" Brad says out loud.

Ray doesn't answer but a message pops up on Brad's tablet: _wut do u think theyre up to_

Brad shifts onto his stomach so that he can hang his head off the edge of the mattress and look upside down at Ray, who's lying ramrod straight as close to the wall as possible. Brad points to his tablet in a silent warning. Ray nods slightly to indicate message received: _They're watching._

"Did you take something?" Brad asks after a beat.

"Nah," Ray says casually. He's almost wedged into the tiny gap in his bunk and sweating hail-sized beads. Leave it to Ray to somehow get uppers in outer space. They stare at each other for a few more seconds, with Brad still hanging like a bat, before he hefts himself upright and types in _who._ as a decoy reply. Pointless, but no harm in trying. 

_walt and tromb, duh. hot engine room sex probably_

Ray is grinning this time when Brad hangs his head down again. He winks exaggeratedly and gives the OK sign followed by a 'shh' gesture. Brad lifts himself back up. He closes the message box, praying that Ray never gets assigned to any kind of military covert ops because then the entire human population is fucked. 

Someone else says, "Hey." It's Poke. He shoots a disparaging look to Ray, presumably, then looks back up and tilts his head. "Come here a sec."

Brad gets down and follows him obediently into the hallway. It's pretty empty, only a few stragglers coming back from mess, but Poke keeps his voice low anyway. 

"Listen. Me and Mike, we just got promoted to make room for the new launch group. He's gonna be commanding Rat and I'm getting Condor."

"Okay," Brad says slowly, though his mind is already working out how this information slots in with everything else. "Do you want a personal congratulations, or…"

"Shut the fuck up. I know you're not that stupid, so cut the shit."

Brad crosses his arms. "So you and Wynn, huh."

"Yeah," Poke confirms with a slight stress. "Funny, right?"

"I'm sure the brass completed a thorough evaluation and made the conscious decision that you two were the best soldiers to promote." When Poke gives him a blandly amused face as a reply, Brad asks, "Why tell me personally? Everyone is going to find out anyway."

"Because he trusts you," Poke answers. "Because clearly this is only the first step of whatever they're up to. I don't know what the fuck's going on but you probably do, so I figured I'd spoonfeed you some information as a headstart in case it helps any. Me and Mike, we'll keep sticking with him until we can't."

"Much appreciated, Poke. Do you have any interest in actually knowing what's going on?"

"Hell fucking no. I'm riding the plausible deniability train for as long as I can. Let me know when shit starts getting really hairy and even then I might tell you to fuck off," Poke says, disgusted, which, when run through the Poke translator, indicates he means the exact opposite. 

Between class and practice, Brad doesn't have time to find out if anyone else got the same message until the next morning: Ray, Trombley, and Walt, of course, and then a couple of other guys from Devil Dogs, and six more from other armies, all of whom were previously in Nate's Rainbow Coalition or are otherwise friendly with him. Put that together with what Poke had told him and all of it effectively means that Nate can no longer run his patchwork quilt training sessions, and he can't have toon-only practices in the evenings either. 

Taking away any support systems that were in place is probably the most obvious sign yet that they're planning something, and soon. Against Brad's better instincts, he tries accessing the teachers' files for the first time in months. Whatever he can get into isn't any different from the last time, and then he's left angry, like he exposed too much of himself with nothing to show for it.

*

"You're not supposed to be here."

Brad looks up and sees Nate settling into the carrel next to his, signing onto the tablet with a quick swipe. "I'm at the mercy of our almighty overlords, sir. My schedule got changed."

"Hm," is all Nate says. He's pale and the tablet light washes him out even more. There's a yellowing bruise along his jaw, sustained a couple weeks ago by mysterious circumstances that he won't tell Brad about, right around the time he'd apparently broken some kind of Battle School record for being on top of the rankings for so long. 

"Not surprised?"

"No. Are you?"

"I've taken some lessons from Rudy," Brad tells him. "Nothing surprises me anymore because I'm at peace, living in the moment."

"That sounds more like willful denial, actually."

"Whatever gets me through another day in this space prison," Brad says, going back to his own tablet and flipping through lecture notes. 

He completes his work within the next half hour but doesn't actually get up until at least another hour after that, when Nate finishes and signs off as well. As they walk out of the library, Nate glances at him, face inscrutable. 

"I didn't realize you'd designated yourself as security detail. I'm already married to Poke and Wynn, you don't think this is overkill?"

"Sir, not sure if you know this, but we happen to be assigned to the same barracks," Brad replies. "Therefore we share a common route back. I'm sure they went over this in launchy classes."

Nate shakes his head. "Did they let you get away with this whole act back on Earth?" 

"Yes," Brad confirms. "I can be very charming."

Classes are starting to let out. He swears that some of the passing faces are focusing too long on Nate, or that there could be groups mobilizing to ambush them between decks, but they make it to barracks without incident and then he's left feeling stupid. Accurately reading situations has never been an issue for him, but at this rate he might end up locked in the brig, paranoid and babbling about people being out to get him.

They're stopped at the doorway when Nate abruptly asks. "Where would you be right now, if you could be anywhere else?"

It takes Brad a second to process the question. Nobody really talks about what their lives were like before Battle School, as if everyone sprung into existence as soldiers already. He has to force himself to actively think about Earth, California, their brown stucco bungalow right next to the zoo, the motorcycle that his parents have probably sold or given away by now. 

"The ocean," he finally says. 

"In San Diego?" When Brad blinks at him, Nate smiles. "You're honestly surprised that someone else in a spaceship full of geniuses also figured out how to get information?"

"I'm flattered, actually," Brad corrects. 

"San Diego sounds nice," Nate offers. "I hope I get to see it someday."

More soldiers are starting to fill the hallways. Nate has slipped into his impassive expression again, as always. Still, what he can't hide is that he's tired as hell. Under the shitty lighting, Brad can imagine bruises on Nate's neck as sharply as the real thing, fingerprints disappearing up behind his ears. 

"You don't have to do this," Brad says before he can help himself. "You don't have to do any of this." 

Even though it's not quite a lie, he finds difficulty in saying it out loud. Maybe it only feels like a lie because it's so far out of the realm of possibilities. Of course Nate is going to. That was never even a question. 

Barracks has filled up with people prepping for the battle against Salamander soon. Nate nods at them and says, "You should get your suit on."

*

The day of their battle against Tiger Army sees Brad sleeping through his Differential Equations class and waking up just in time to squeeze in a 40-minute workout if he forgoes a shower and takes the shortcut through the launchy level. He's found that he performs best in battle a little hungry and keyed up from a cardio buzz.

At the gym, he makes a decision to take off his shirt and spend ten more minutes on the treadmill than he's supposed to, which is exactly how long it takes for someone to notice that his heart-rate isn't registering on the network. When Godfather parks himself in front of the treadmill, Brad stares at him and keeps running. He only slows and stops because Godfather reaches out and hits the emergency stop button. Up close, he's more weather-worn than the only other time Brad has seen him in person, way back during their initial launch. 

"You were specifically told that everyone is to keep their clothes on at all times in the gym," he states. "There are sensors in them that monitor your exertion levels. You are aware of this."

"Yes, sir," Brad says. "I just wanted to make sure all the technology here was in working order. I got the feeling that maybe you all weren't receiving messages."

"Don't be a shit-stirrer, Brad. You're too old and too smart for these cute little rebellious tendencies. Suck it up and play your role." Godfather smiles humorlessly. "You know that's the only way out of here."

"Yes, sir," Brad repeats, because for all that Godfather pisses him off, he's also right. Nobody's here to help them, that's for sure.

He finishes up and gets back to barracks, where most of the soldiers are already geared up. Brad steps into his flash suit in less than ten seconds but there seems to be some confusion brewing from the people milling around the doorway as the army starts to congregate up front. 

"What the hell's going on?" Walt calls from atop his bunk.

"Someone's toon is missing," a voice hollers back. 

Schwetje's face pops into view. "Where is Toon Five?" he yells.

"Sir," Brad says, raising one hand. He sees Walt's also hand up, and Ray's, and Trombley's.

Process of elimination takes way too long. By the time Brad realizes who's absent, his stomach is already feeling heavy. He taps Walt's calf with his knuckle. "Where's Nate," he asks in a low voice as Walt leans over.

Walt pulls back a little to look Brad in the face. "Showers," he says slowly. 

Brad's body starts moving before his brain even gets clued in to what the fuck it's doing. The flash suit seems to take forever to come off, and then pushing his way through the army slows him down a little, but he starts jogging as soon as he hits open hallway despite Schwetje yelling nonsense after him. There's no one in the Deck A showers; his feet almost slip off the ladder rungs in his haste to check Deck B.

It's already crowded with teachers when Brad gets there, even though steam is still collecting through the room and there's water all over the tiles. They must have responded quickly. At first Brad thinks he imagines the red strips in the water sluicing down the drain, but then he sees the black hair and the brown and green uniform in the corner.

A hand grabs his arm and pulls him away. He doesn't resist.

"What did you see?" Godfather again, rasping inches away from his face.

"Nothing," Brad answers. "Who's in there? What's going on?"

"Brad. What," Godfather repeats, "did you. See."

Sweat starts prickling at his hairline. " _Nothing_ , sir. What the hell's going on? I just got done with exercising and a bunch of idiots who don't know how showers work are standing around in here with all their clothes on. Did something happen? Plumbing's broke?"

Godfather studies him in silence before finally letting him go. Brad stumbles back a couple steps.

"So am I supposed to go into battle smelling like ass?" he calls to no one in particular, and no one answers him.

Patterson walks up. "Your battle is postponed. I'll notify Tiger. Go back to the barracks and let them know," he orders. 

A bunch of staff are strategically blocking his view into the showers. He stands around for a while before rolling his eyes and walking away. His hands don't start shaking until he's almost at the ladders. By the time his feet hit the floor, there are bright spots in his vision like oil-rainbows. 

He barely makes it to the nearest bathrooms in time to puke into the sink. Strangely enough it's Kasem's legs that he keeps flashing back to, the way one of them was slightly bent, feet splayed out in a position too awkward to be anything but unintentional.

After everyone hears the battle is canceled, they futz around uselessly before dispersing one by one. Brad doesn't think he's acting any different, but nobody asks him about what happened, not even Ray. He lies on his bed and opens the calendar on his tablet. 

It's a Thursday. 

He's not supposed to have seen anything that went down in the showers. 

It's a Thursday. 

Nate might be waiting. 

On the way to the combat room, he passes the Mantis army barracks, whose colors are green and black. Green cancels red, Brad thinks. He keeps seeing the blood on the shower tiles anyway. He'd been so focused on Nate getting hurt. It never occurred to him that the bigger risk was the reverse of that. 

Nate's already waiting when Brad palms the door open. He wants to close his eyes as Nate moves to take off his shirt, but it's a useless flinch -- there are no marks on him, no anything. 

"Go," Nate says, and then it's all Brad can do to parry against Nate's onslaught. Fists, feet, knees, headbutts. Brad barely gets in a roundhouse kick to Nate's side, but he's pretty sure it goes unnoticed. There's no time to focus on anything except not getting his neck broken. 

Finally, Brad manages to throw Nate over his shoulder in a desperate move more fit for underground wrestling than controlled gravity combat. It knocks the air out of Nate and there's a brief interlude as he remains sprawled, gasping for breath. Brad pads over, looks down at him. Nate looks back with faraway eyes. 

Then the walls tilt up as Nate sweeps Brad's legs out from under him and Brad hits the mats too. They huff for air in silence. 

"My shoulder," Nate says. 

Brad hefts himself up on his elbows to see. Even lying down, he can tell that Nate's arm is hanging weirdly off the socket. "Shit, I'm sorry. We should -- "

"Can you help?" Nate cuts in, as if it's a simple request. 

Apparently Brad doesn't even draw the line at DIY fucking surgery when it comes to Nate, because he's up and moving after only a brief moment of consideration. It takes two tries for him to get close to popping the shoulder back in and Nate is sweating, palm slippery against Brad's.

"Do it already, Jesus Christ," Nate pants.

Brad touches Nate's bare stomach, then his good shoulder. "All due respect, sir, I'm pretty they have a medical bay so that people like me don't have to do shit like this. Squeeze my hand again," he instructs, and it feels like all the joints in his hand are grinding together as he pulls, hard.

There's a loud noise before Nate immediately retracts his arm and cradles it close to himself. He rolls over onto his stomach, wheezing, "Shit."

Brad kneels down, resting the flat of his palm on Nate's back. He tries rubbing in slow circles, timing it to each of Nate's deep inhales, and finds himself keeping time with his own breath, too. He's half-expecting Nate to tell him about what happened in the showers, but instead Nate just says, "They gave me command."

"They offered you command?" 

"They gave me command of Devil Dogs," Nate corrects. "Graduated Schwetje to Tactical. They made me take it. Said I'd ice out otherwise. I couldn't say no anymore."

Smash a guy's face in and get a command post as punishment. Brad runs his hand over Nate's head, then settles it over the back of his neck, squeezing a bit. Nate makes a small noise. 

"Okay, they gave you command. So what," Brad says. 

Nate turns over, resting his knuckles against Brad's knee. "What if we stop winning battles?" he asks quietly. "What if I lose?"

"Who gives a shit," Brad says, and he almost believes it. He takes Nate's hand again and grips it hard, trying to anchor them both, but it's too late; Nate's already detached, staring at some far point in the corner of the room, spinning out in no particular direction.

*

The next night, he logs on to the student files again and is more successful this time. Nate's file is now so packed that eventually he gets tired of scrolling through everything and writes up a quick code that highlights key words instead. He concentrates on glancing casually at each pop-up on his tablet, as if he's checking out some light reading.

After about a minute, his hunch is confirmed. The teachers, in their infinite stupidity, have deemed Nate ready to graduate to Command School. All the qualities were there, according to them. He's ready. Exactly the right balance of empathy and coldness, control and impulsivity, and all the rest of the psychobabble bullshit. Never mind the fact that he's also just a lonely, scared kid. Brad presses a key and the screen goes black. 

It's been months since Patterson last summoned him, but muscle memory takes Brad to the correct office within five minutes. Patterson seems unsurprised to see Brad standing in the doorway and waves him in tersely.

"I figured you would've shown up weeks ago," he says. 

"So you _have_ been watching," Brad states, only a little sarcastically. "Sorry for being behind schedule." 

Patterson looks like he's feeling sorry for Brad already, which means his whole being here is useless. "It's too much too soon," Brad says anyway. "You're going to destroy him."

"My superiors seem to disagree. It'll require some delicate handling but we have some plans in mind."

"Better ones than for the First Expedition, I hope." 

Patterson pauses, then says, "I thought they capped your access to the net."

"I would've had it figured out with or without any kind of special access. Did you guys send some rovers out there to bring back the remains, or did the IF chalk it off as a lost cause and go the route of space pirate burial? Is that what I have to look forward to when the IF decides I'm disposable?"

"I don't have the capability to explain the IF's decision-making process to you, Brad," Patterson sighs. 

"Right," Brad says. "Is there a backup plan for when you guys shit the bed and the best chance you have at saving humanity won't leave his PTSD corner?"

"Nate will likely be the best military commander in modern history," Patterson says softly. "He doesn't need you to protect him."

"Maybe not. But he needs an ally. A friend." Obviously what he really wants to say is, _me_. Then Brad wonders how much of this was predestined -- if the IF had plans for him before he was even placed in a launch group, if it was by design that he became Nate's closest ally, if he had played right into their hands or created that path for himself that first day he saw Nate practicing in the battle rooms.

"You always needed a second. Someone to make it bearable for him here so that he wouldn't break," Brad says slowly. "I hope I served your purpose well."

"I didn't take you for the conspiracy type," Patterson says. "Listen, you're right about most things, clearly. But not everything is manipulated, and we're not omniscient. You had free will. Besides, we can't predict social relations. It goes too deep into the parts of psychology we haven't figured out yet."

"Bullshit, sir."

Patterson is almost melancholy. "What would you have me do, Brad? Can you truly imagine him going back home to Earth? Can you imagine that for any of you?"

Most of the time Brad is silent, it's because he chooses to be. There can be power in silence and he typically wields it often. But right now, it's not a choice. Patterson's still giving him that same look that makes Brad want to trash this whole fucking place. 

"You're soldiers now. And you always will be."

"Maybe save your next lines for whatever jingoist movie that'll be made about all of us in ten years," Brad finally suggests, rising from his chair. There's an unfamiliar feeling in his throat but the words come out sounding normal anyway.

*

He gets back to the barracks at seven minutes before lights out. When he wakes up his tablet, a note immediately pops up on the screen: _Come see me_. He doesn't know how long it's been there. He goes anyway.

The commander's cabin is right by the entrance of the barracks, with its own door. He taps on it softly, says, "It's almost lights out," as Nate palms the door open. He steps inside and hears the door slide shut again behind him.

"The diet here nurtures night vision," Nate says tonelessly. "I'm sure you can find your way back in the dark."

The desk lamp is on. Nate climbs onto his bunk, lies down with his hands folded over his chest and stares up at the ceiling, like a pharaoh awaiting burial. At this angle, the light draws out the shadows underneath his eyes and hollows out divots in his cheeks. 

"Are you going to sit?" he asks.

There's no chair. Brad sits on the edge of the bed as Nate faces at the ceiling again. A muscle jumps in Brad's thigh and he presses his hand down on it, trying to quell the involuntary.

"They iced Kasem," Nate says in that same dull voice. "I just found out. You heard, right?"

"I heard." From Poke and Mike, after dinner. Iced out for insubordination. That was the official word, anyway, and all three of them knew that it was a neat fairytale of the actual events. None of them had acknowledged it.

"Yesterday, I was in the showers, and he came in and tried to -- I think I hurt him really badly."

"If you did, he had it coming," Brad says. "Same thing probably would have happened to him back on Earth, with people who would've done much worse."

Kasem had been breathing, at least. His face was a mess of red, but he'd been breathing. That didn't assure any kind of higher brain function, though. The teachers probably didn't give a shit about that -- the important part was that they were successful in confirming the final piece of their golden boy puzzle: Nate was capable of killing.

Nate presses the heels of his palms against his sockets, like he's trying to push out whatever he's seeing. He doesn't ask how Brad knows. "No one has anything like that coming."

"You did what you had to," Brad tries. He presses down on his thigh again. "He would have killed you. You had no other choice."

Nate sits up suddenly and demands, "How can you be so sure of that?"

"I don't need a magic eight-ball to figure it out. People are predictable. People like him, even more so."

"What about me? Could you have predicted that I would've almost killed him?" Nate asks, hollow.

"Nate."

"Could you have predicted I almost killed another kid too -- a long time ago, before Battle School, before the IF even came to recruit me -- "

"Nate," Brad repeats, and Nate stops.

They're sitting very close now. He cups his hand over the side of Nate's neck, feeling a faint pulse against the meat of his palm. Nate stares back at him, with those bright eyes that may as well be light years away. When Brad leans forward, Nate doesn't move, and he takes that as implicit permission. 

He kisses him, just briefly. Nate still hasn't moved; his eyes are closed, lashes glittering in the half-dark. "Do it again," he commands quietly, and Brad obeys, kisses him for longer this time until he feels Nate relax into it. 

The lights flicker before going out. Nate breaks away but rests his forehead on Brad's shoulder. "You think I'll be able to sleep?" he asks.

Brad snorts, a mirthless laugh, but he thinks he hears Nate do the same. They sit like that for a long time, with Brad's arms wrapped around Nate, pressing his fingers against knots in his back. Eventually they lie down, curling up on their sides to fit, a narrow isthmus between them. Nate actually falls asleep within minutes but Brad stays awake, wondering if Nate's going to be gone when he wakes up, whisked away to Command School in the middle of the night. 

His mind wanders, extrapolating on different scenarios that've been marching through his head ever since Patterson asked, _Can you imagine him going back home to Earth now?_ : they somehow get control of one of the emergency escape pods and head back to Earth. Or they both manage to ice out at the same time in favor of starting another life somewhere in Montana or some shit -- although the IF probably has people there, too. Maybe they graduate to Command School together, put in their twenty years, and then blast off to Mars to start their own colony. 

Nate frowns even in his sleep, but when Brad settles a hand over the crook of his elbow, barely resting it there, the expression straightens out. He looks young then, and almost peaceful.


End file.
